


Sweet Thoughts

by starsstripesbloodandtea (kewelhumanbean)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Joltolock, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, but i promise it's not angsty, this ship needs more fluff tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:51:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7333897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kewelhumanbean/pseuds/starsstripesbloodandtea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One lazy Sunday afternoon in 221B Baker Street</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The Joltolock tag is ridiculously empty so I set off to remedy that by writing my own fanfic despite having never written fanfiction before  
> 2\. There is one fanfic in the Joltolock tag that is rated G. One single fanfic. So to make up for the overwhelming lack I decided to make this fanfic 100% fluff  
> 3\. I soon realized I had no clue how to write fluff so if it's absolutely the most horrible thing you've ever read please give me advice. Please. I beg of you.  
> 4\. This is not beta'd, not one word. Sorry. Please leave comments though?
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Golden afternoon sunrays floated through the windows of 221B Baker Street that particular Sunday. The living room was serene, with its familiar glow of vintage green-and-violet and the blissful scent of domestic happiness. In the aftermath of a case that was just exciting enough without being too dangerous, Sherlock bumbled around 221B, idly gracing the flat with his calm (for now) existence.

“James,” he called to his ginger boyfriend sitting in the brown armchair. The man in question raised his head from his book with an expectant smile, only to find his face suddenly pressed up into the soft material of Sherlock’s dressing gown.

“Feeling cuddly, are you?” James’ smiling lips spoke into Sherlock’s stomach. James heard rather than felt the nod above his head, and took the cue to gently pull Sherlock down by the wrists. Sherlock folded himself into James’ lap like he belonged there, and blinked happily at this revelation – he belonged in James’ lap, of course he did – and tilted his head just so, in a way that his lips brushed against James’ cheek and he could feel James’ grin-crinkled eyes. With another shift of the head, James pressed his lips to Sherlock’s in a chaste kiss. It was innocent love, a celebration of their existence together, a chance to giggle into one another’s mouth as impulsive fingers prodded ticklish spaces.

A third presence leaned over the couch and, with a quick kiss to the back of James’ ear, elicited a quiet, surprised exclamation that made Sherlock laugh that dear, familiar nose-scrunch laugh.

“Come around the couch, John, join us,” murmured James, his eyes still laughing. This was one of John’s favorite parts about him: his soft-spokenness – how his words came quiet but never shy, how the rumble of his voice never overwhelmed his careful diction, and how in the military his quietude never lost him any respect from his men. How on the contrary his commands were stern and confident, how he was really, truly loved by all and no one’s hate could ever take James away from John and Sherlock, ever. In times like his when James spoke, John would feel the need to lay his fingertips on James’ throat or back just to feel the vibration of his words; he did so now. James’ post-traumatic stress sometimes kept him from letting even a scarf touch his neck, and yet he continued to let John feel his voice, and continued to speak softly, and continued to allow John to bask in the trust they shared.

John perched himself half on the arm of the chair, half on James’ lap so that his legs could press against Sherlock’s lower back and his face against James’ strong jaw. Such a position gave him a perfect view of the back of Sherlock’s neck. It was there for him to touch, so that he could chuckle in sweet domestic ecstasy when his fingers traced the baby hairs down the nape of Sherlock’s neck and felt the resulting little shudder down Sherlock’s spine. He loved these places: little lines of pale fluff that were just barely there on his chest, below his bellybutton, and behind his legs. He often wondered what made Sherlock’s head so dark when the hair on the rest of his body was light as dust. Not now, but in other moments, he would trace Sherlock’s lines of baby hair, painting lines of guiltless love with his fingertips and eliciting the sighs of a happy man.

These were the sweet thoughts in John Watson’s mind while they all three laid on each other on the couch in their flat. In their shared flat -- their home.

Kisses fluttered around. John pressed a prim peck on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock placed his thumb on James’ face and let it glide down the mottled border of his scars, across his temple, over his jaw, and down into the neckline of his shirt.

And James was transfixed by the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze. In the media, he had often seen Sherlock’s eyes described as some sort of sky blue, or mossy green, or once – in an article authored by a particularly desperate freelancer – _verdigris_ , the color of copper rust, which James, detesting any variant of turquoise, found to be a downright _awful_ comparison. He would never forget his first time looking into Sherlock’s famous eyes and thinking that, really, truly, the magazines were right for once, and really, truly, he could fall to his death in those eyes without a single regret, because it was really, truly true: the green and blue fought for attention like tiny galaxies, complete with bright little stars glittering in flecks of gold on those almond-shaped canvases. James loved Sherlock’s eyes more than the universe itself, all similarities acknowledged. He had imagined once that the eyes that read so much would logically be impossible to read themselves; but the eyes are the windows to the soul, after all, and when Sherlock deduced, he kept his eyes wide open. James could read Sherlock down to the carefully hidden nuances of his essence, and all that he saw in Sherlock’s head filled and stretched his heart.

The other half of his heart, which Sherlock’s eyes courteously did not occupy, was filled to the brim with love for John’s posture.

Frankly, James often laughed a self-deprecating laugh at how much he loved John's posture. It was absurd to be in love with someone's _posture_ , he'd tell himself. This, of course, did not stop him from feeling a small thrill every time John Watson stood up straight as could be and filled his uniform (now comprised of soft sweaters and blue jeans) with as much of his 5’7 frame as he possibly could. It was a military habit that had persisted through hardship and injury: one bullet wound, the hellride of PTSD, and now the creaky process of middle age beginning to set in. And yet, John could one moment be standing with an impeccable curve to his back and a perfect distance between his legs, and the next moment be flopped into an armchair, slouched lazily so that his laptop could rest on his stomach as he typed a blog entry one letter at a time. James loved this slouch. He loved that it wasn’t one of depression or abandon but one of comfort and trust in his surroundings. This was, of course, his home territory. He loved that his and Sherlock’s John Watson was so soft but so solid. Brave little hedgehog man. 

These were the sweet thoughts in James Sholto’s mind that afternoon as the sun filled their home as well as their souls with golden happiness.

John Watson shifted so as to stop cutting off circulation to his legs, and Sherlock became aware he was in love with John’s heart.

There was magic in it, that was for sure. And as John turned to find a more comfortable position for the three of them his chest ended up pressed on Sherlock’s shoulder. Leaning against the base of John's sternum, Sherlock could feel the thud of John's heart strong and slow and steady.

_Ba-rum. Ba-rum._

After years of military service and almost as many spent dashing around London, John Watson had an admirable resting heart rate of 52 beats per minute. Oftentimes, Sherlock would find himself in an affectionate mood, not unlike the one he was in now, and pick up his violin only to stop… and find where John Watson lounged in the flat so that he could rest his ear on John’s chest for minutes on end.

“I need a tempo of 52 beats but I can’t find the metronome,” Sherlock would murmur by means of an explanation.

_Ba-rum. Ba-rum._

John Watson would just smile and rub one of Sherlock’s curls.

James was now doing the same. He was now crunched in the corner of the armchair with Sherlock’s head in just the right spot for petting. Sherlock could see James’ expression – entranced – and wondered what he what thinking about. Ten years ago, Sherlock might have perceived the same gaze on anyone’s face as disdainful judgment or even cruel pity. Before he became so skilled in reading expressions and so precise in sifting through layers of little clues, there had been a time when Sherlock's deductions had been skewed by his painful lack of self-worth. He remembered being cruel to the world because it was cruel to him; he remembered being careless with himself in a way that some people are when they wish for death but not by their own hand; he remembered laying in one spot for days on end, not because he had nothing to do, but because in his smallness he felt he had no reason to get up and go through the motions for another day. John helped him with these feelings in the first chapter of their acquaintance. But in truth, Sherlock still felt rather isolated until the eventful day when Sherlock learned of that exact same desolation festering in James’ spirit.

Sherlock loved James’ sympathy more than anything else. It was different from empathy, mind you, which Sherlock had always believed he had too much of. Sherlock loved that, after he and James worked to teach each other it was okay to _feel_ , James could not only understand what Sherlock felt and why, but he knew how to offer not pity but rather compassion, and fix the remaining tears in Sherlock’s heart that John just couldn’t reach alone. Sherlock adored seeing James heal piece by piece as well, seeing the light return to his eyes when he laughed, seeing him collapse on the bed not from despair but from an exhausting day of _living_ , seeing him breathe deeper in his chest, seeing him not try so hard every day to cover the scars sprawled beautifully across his body. 

These were the sweet thoughts in Sherlock Holmes’ mind as continued to trace the dips and ridges of rough tissue on James’ left side. The three men settled into stillness on the couch just as they had settled into this lifestyle of languid harmony.

The sun’s rays tiptoed across the walls of 221B Baker Street that particular Sunday as afternoon turned to evening and James Sholto, John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes laid on each other in the satisfied quiet of adoration, each man’s mind painted gold with love.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @kewelhumanbean


End file.
